The Devil Lurks Everywhere
by Popering
Summary: Edward didn't pity the mangled corpses surrounding him; he envied them. Mud Grave AU (Alternatively: WWI CoS AU). Roy/Ed. Please review!


**A/N:** written for Berg, you terrifying goddamn genius  
 **For those who know Mud Grave:** Great! Enjoy your stay in hell!  
 **For those who don't know Mud Grave:** Essentially, this is a WWI CoS AU, Ed is slightly older and has a wife and child at home. If you want to check out more Mud Grave (I beg you) go check out Berg's tumblr- tagged/mud-grave

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Hell wasn't hot — that much Edward Elric knew. Hell wasn't a fiery, underground wasteland populated by souls of the damned; no, Hell was a perpetual, visceral cold that seeped into your bones. It was a filthy seven-foot trench scraped out of the earth and it's only inhabitants were corpses and the ghosts of ordinary men still attached to their physical forms. Hell was here, above ground, screaming in their ears and contaminating every sight. It was detectable in the stench of decaying bodies, poison gas, and disinfectants. Hell was the metallic taste of blood in one's mouth. It was everywhere you turned but, ironically, unfortunately, Hell's walls were keeping him alive.

Edward didn't pity the mangled corpses surrounding him; he envied them. He often wondered why he didn't just sit above the trenches and wait to be shot. It would be so easy — _too_ easy — to end all his suffering, disappearing without a trace beneath the rapidly growing piles of dead bodies. He repeatedly daydreamed about it. It was a nice thought — silently vanishing from the world as if his pathetic existence had never been. Finally he'd be allowed to just _rest_ ; finding peace among his fallen troops and his mother. His cold, stiff, dead body sprawled on the ground, eyes missing — eaten by rats — and likely decomposing with foul rot beneath all the other nameless corpses, but without a single concern; he yearned for it. He didn't care if he would be missed or not. However, self-preservation had always been a strong instinct in him, stronger than most; he cursed it now.

"Fire at will!" was shouted in the distance. Three ear-splitting bangs went off — Ed waited a moment — another three faint explosions could be heard not far away, each accompanied by a flash of light. He felt the ground tremble at the abuse. He was used to it.

Ed didn't believe in God. He never had and at this point he was convinced that _if_ God was real, he was one sadistic son-of-a-bitch. Maybe the Devil was real. Maybe the Devil _was_ God. It wouldn't surprise him. Whatever the truth was, Ed knew the Devil was not a single entity. He lurked everywhere. He was living in the shadows, hiding in the lifeless, open eyes of his friends and slithering just beneath the muck at his feet. The Devil was always scouring the trenches for his next victim — Ed could feel him at his back, between his toes, breathing across his face. He crawled through the veins of every soldier and whispered in their ears, in their minds, in their dreams, until one day they snapped and lifted a revolver to their temples or that of their friends. The Devil ravaged everything; he had even soiled every drop of rain that reached the ground.

Rain was supposed to be cleansing. Edward tried to pretend to like it, it was really the only chance he got to bathe. In reality, the rain only made everything more miserable. The water soaked his uniform and half froze him to death every night. The trenches got dirtier; the mud seeped into his clothes, his boots, his hair. Sludge even got in his eyes. It was almost impossible to maneuver the dead, rotting carcasses when the mud invariably seeked to drag him under. Occasionally, a misshapen trench wall would collapse from a deformity caused by the excess water; it buried men alive but it also covered the older corpses. Ed tried to be grateful the skies were clear tonight. He found it hard to be grateful for anything anymore.

He was starving, he was exhausted, itchy, afraid, and he was always so very, very cold. Rations were shit, but they were food and it kept him alive. They were starting to run out though, and more wouldn't be delivered for another two weeks. He vaguely wondered how many people would starve before then.

He fired his rifle one last time before he was relieved of duty; he decided to find his sleeping partner. For once he was grateful he had fake limbs; the ricochet from the gun was barely felt in his fake shoulder any time he fired a shot. He carefully, wearily climbed off of the dead bodies he'd been standing on to fire over the trench walls. As his foot touched the ground he noticed he couldn't feel his toes. They were hurting before and he didn't remember when they had stopped. Ed's toes were probably black by now; he vaguely wondered if he'd have to cut them off. He only had two limbs left, maybe they'd all be gone by the time he was done with this. It didn't really matter to him — at least his toes weren't hurting any more. He knew Roy was somewhere to the left, and if he kept wandering in that direction he'd find him eventually.

He trudged his way through the mixture of dirt, blood, and bodily wastes until he reached a point where a bombshell had struck. He meticulously surveyed the damage. Most of the bodies were surprisingly intact. A few appendages and chunks of flesh scattered the area; a foot here, an arm there, but for the most part his dead comrades just stared blankly at him as he passed through. Maggots and rats were already starting to appear.

Ed startled at a particularly large brown one that had been working through a soldier's abdomen. The rat hissed viciously as Edward stumbled to get away from it. Common courtesy demanded that they be exterminated whenever possible in the trenches. Sometimes bored troops, including Ed, would gather small parties and go hunting for the monsters as a way to entertain themselves and let out their frustration. Many times Edward had cheered and participated in shooting, stabbing, beating, and overall disfiguring the rats before they were thrown carelessly out of the trenches. Occasionally it was turned into a contest. However, it didn't seem to make any difference; there were always more feasting on the eyes of cadavers and running across soldiers' faces while they slept. The rats were the worst; he didn't think twice as he aimed for the head.

Ed eventually stopped and sat for a moment across from one of the corpses he recognized. He was just another inconspicuous German boy, just another faceless victim. He was younger than Ed but taller, he noted. He remembered this kid from a week ago — Ed had given up his blanket to him and the poor boy had almost cried in his overwhelming gratitude. It was a shame he was dead; Ed had kind of liked him. He never even knew his name. Oh well.

He gazed at the blood pouring from his head, the source of which was part of a protruding skull bone. Ed noticed the gray matter starting to leak out. He stared into the disfigured eye barely hanging in it's socket and a similarly maimed ear. The kid's entire front was soaked in his own blood; large amounts congealed on the ground underneath him. He looked downward and noticed the boy's right arm was absent. He chuckled quietly to himself.

"You and me both, kid," he commented with a wry sense of humor. No one was around to hear him.

He kept watching the defunct corpse, studying the boy's final living emotion; the one that would be forever etched onto his features: horror. Ed had to agree. He disinterestedly got back up and continued to look for Roy. Emotionlessly, he scanned the dead bodies as he went, checking to see if his partner had been one of the casualties. Sooner or later he made his way back to a part of the trench where the bodies were still breathing. That was good.

He spotted Roy quickly, already settling in for the night against one of the hard dirt walls. It was important to sleep with your back to No Man's Land — it was harder for snipers to blow your brains out that way. Sometimes Ed ignored the rule. He reminisced about the time he first met Roy. He had been trying to sneak a glance over the parapet of the trench like the idiot he was and Ed had tackled him onto the duckboard. It was painfully obvious this Roy had never been in the military.

He started to make his way over before one of the men from his troop, Gottschalk — the one that looked just like Havoc — stopped him.

"Hey Ed, you don't happen to have anything for me, do you?" He asked nonchalantly.

Ed rustled with his real hand through the sleeve of his other, pulling out 3 cigarettes he'd been smuggling in his prosthetic. He'd looted them off the corpse of a higher ranking officer. He didn't tell that to Gottschalk.

"Alright!" He whooped, "Thanks, Ed. I can always count on you," he clapped Edward on the back.

Ed nodded silently at his praise and watched Jean walk in the opposite direction as he pulled a matchbox out of his shirt pocket. He quietly shuffled over to Roy who, despite his eyes being closed, opened up the blanket, beckoning him to get underneath like every other night. Ed didn't hesitate in doing so.

Roy wrapped an arm around his waist, bringing the blanket with him. Ed shivered; it was always cold at first, but once the body heat spread through their clothes it wasn't so bad. Roy nuzzled the crook of his neck.

"Hey, short stuff," he whispered tiredly.

"Hey," Ed grunted in response.

Ed didn't know what it was with these assholes; it seemed Roy Baumhauer was exactly like Mustang when it came to egos and making fun of his height. At least this Roy wasn't a manipulative bastard. He didn't lie to Ed, and maybe that was why he clung to him in the first place. Edward was always the one searching for facts, after all, even if those facts weren't all sunshine and rainbows.

"I've got something for you," Roy stated. He held out a smuggled ration bar.

"How did you get that?" Ed asked suspiciously, slightly incredulously.

"Someone owed me a favor. Take it." He urged.

Ed did. He all but shoved it down his throat. It might've had all the taste and texture of sandpaper but he was so fucking hungry; he was sure his stomach had shrunk since enlisting and he constantly felt an empty hole in his middle. A couple of ribs were starting show. Despite how shitty it was, it was gone much too quickly. Ed found himself wishing there were more. He sighed.

Roy kissed his neck, then his cheek. Edward blushed slightly, but it wasn't important. It didn't matter if people saw, it didn't matter if people _watched_ ; all they had for company were the empty shells of former human beings — some had heartbeats, others didn't. It didn't matter.

Roy started to scratch his head lightly, and Ed leaned into the touch; his scalp was terribly itchy and Roy knew it. They both knew it was the lice — everyone had it. Unfortunately, it wasn't just in their hair; lice seemed to be etched into the seams of their clothes. No matter how often they were washed and de-loused, they always came back. The only pitiful defense they had against it was the policy of buzzing everyone's head when they were drafted, only it had been awhile since Ed's last haircut and it was getting a little long. Ed didn't mind so much, he missed his ponytail, even though it had been longer than he could remember since he'd had it.

Lice were only a few of the creatures soldiers had to worry about. There were flies, ticks, mosquitoes, maggots, beetles, slugs, rats...the list went on and on. Ed thought flies were the least harmful; all they did was land on you, and they were the least likely to carry disease. However, it had been a long time since Ed had cared about getting some infected bug bite. He simply watched as ticks and mosquitoes fed on his blood; if it was uncomfortable, Ed didn't feel it. He was practically a walking corpse. He didn't care if he got Lyme disease or some other horrible infection. Maybe if he did they'd send him home, or if he was really lucky maybe it would kill him. It was a passive way to die — maybe not as quick as a bullet, but it was easier to get past that instinct of self-preservation.

Ed focused his attention back on the gentle feeling of Roy lightly scratching the nape of his neck. It felt so good he wanted to purr. He gave a weary sigh instead. Roy kissed his temple one last time and started to hum sweet nothings in his ear.

This was all wrong. It was wrong for so many, innumerable reasons. There were no soft touches and whispered affections in war. A trench in the middle of a combat zone was no time to cuddle and find solace in another man's arms. He knew it was shameful; still though, Ed clung onto those gentle affections and warm niceties like it was all that was keeping him alive. Perhaps it was. For reasons Ed couldn't quite understand, he felt guilty as he soaked up the warmth from Roy's body heat while he watched as bullets whizzed over his head.

But it also felt wrong because he couldn't stop thinking about Mustang. How could he not? He'd never had feelings for his former CO before he'd crossed the gate, but now here he was, being embraced by the man's doppelgänger. He was in love with Baumhauer — at least, that was the lie he told himself. He needed some sort of reason to live through each day. Roy whispered idealistic fantasies of the future to him; it only served to remind him more and more of Mustang and the things he had envisioned. But Ed didn't have a place in Roy's future, and even if he did, he certainly didn't deserve one. He couldn't bring himself to believe Roy's flights of fancy would ever come true for either of them anyway.

"Roy, are we going to die here?" Ed interrupted. He knew Roy would tell him the truth.

"Probably," was his sleepy response. Ed paused a minute to mull that over, then asked another question:

"When?"...Roy thought for a moment.

"Soon," he declared.

Ed hummed a noncommittal noise. He hoped Roy wasn't just telling him things he wanted to hear. Ed didn't think he was though.

It wasn't long until Roy fell asleep still hugging Ed. The younger man leaned his head against Roy's and thought of why he despised himself most of all. Here he was, showing this tenderness towards another man while his wife and son were waiting for him at home, in the country he was fighting against no less. He idly wondered if he'd killed anyone Anaïs, his wife, knew. Maybe he'd even killed one of her — and by extension, his — relatives. Maybe an uncle or a cousin, maybe even a brother. He'd have to apologize.

How could he possibly face his beloved wife again? How could he ever tell his son that his father had been kissing other men while he was away? He couldn't, and Edward was cowardly enough to know he never would. He was an abomination and he absolutely resented himself for it. He'd always been loyal to the ones he loved, but clearly his morals had been screwed. He was disgusting.

He reached carefully — so as not to wake the source of all his self-loathing — into his breast pocket. He pulled out two dirty, torn, blood-stained photos of the ones he'd betrayed. The pictures were fading fast, yellowing, and he worried that he'd end up forgetting their faces. Blood seemed to be on everything these days. He'd gotten used to it.

He wondered how much different León, his son, looked now. It had been awhile. Not to mention the picture had been folded and opened so often that the crease running along the side of León's face was turning white, distorting his image. Ed's heart ached looking at these pictures. If only he'd had the energy to cry. His chest suddenly felt unbearably heavy; he swore it was about to collapse in on him and he almost prayed that it did. He pressed the pictures to his mouth, which was shut in a tight line, and took a wet, ragged inhale. Maybe Hell really was populated by souls of the damned.

Ed had always been numb to everything around him. The despair, the dread, the death — it was part of his everyday life. He sometimes wondered if he'd be able to function outside of it all, if he ever made it home, that was. Probably not. Edward may have been desensitized, traumatized, and generally ruined by the atrocity of war; he may have been ashamed, disgraced, and revolted by the things he'd seen and done, but he was still here, and he was still _trying_ for some unfathomable reason, and that counted for something, right? Roy was still alive too, and for even more incomprehensible reasons, he loved Ed. Or so he told him.

Roy tried to make him promises for long after the war ended and, despite the sincerity in his eyes, Ed knew he had no means with which to fulfill them. Roy would go his way, and Ed would go back to his waiting family, trying to forget Roy ever existed. Even if Ed lived through the war, he would still return as a ghost. He was undeniably haunted, and it was likely he'd die that way, however near or far away that time was.

He thoughtfully re-folded the photographs and put them back in his pocket where he always kept them. He looked up at the clear sky, gazing at the stars that seemed to mock him. Up there, where no one could reach, it looked like a perfect paradise. He tried to imagine what it was like up there, but his fantasies were constantly being marred by the light of far-off explosions. Here at this moment, he was trapped in a foreign Hell-on-Earth, trying desperately to carve out some sort of Heaven inside Roy's warm arms.

Hell wasn't hot — that much Edward Elric knew. Hell was a deep, unshakable frost that lodged itself in one's soul. It came from the knowledge that hope was futile and that death was inexorably close. Hell's only populace were cowardly men who made mistakes and couldn't forgive themselves. It was detectable anywhere, in every imaginable crevice, but it could be most strongly felt in the heavily abused bodies, minds, and spirits of run-down, worn-out soldiers.

Edward Elric had been living in Hell his entire life, and he was _tired_. He was always delirious with exhaustion, and his bones were old and achy with horrendous experience. He was constantly on the verge of collapsing, stumbling and tripping over his tattered psyche. When he finally passed out next to Roy in a nauseating, putrid, infested hole with mud and other repulsive substances matting their hair and staining their faces...he knew he was doomed.


End file.
